Writing is like traveling, and although that’s a bit obvious and simplified, sometimes I believe the journey afforded me as a writer has been nothing short of arduous and rough going. Like mountain climbing. When is it going to get easier, I often ask myself? I want to lie down on the job, perhaps, but fifteen years into this and I’m still pushing myself over rough terrain to get something worthwhile down onto a page, and better yet have someone else like it enough to publish it. The difficult part of it all is feeling like I have to prove myself, and all the time I’ve spent doing what I love, to others when what I should be doing is spending a lot less time worried what other people are going to think of me and get buckling. Focus! Notice that I’m more worried about what others will think. I’m quite certain I haven’t been frittering too much, but I want to be perceived as industrious and capable. Writers understand this. We fight the desire to prove ourselves. We want progress. You know what I figured out? It’s as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. I write because I want to go places in my heart and in my mind, and so I do. I love that about traveling. I get to see more of what I’m capable of.